


Clean Heat

by LookingForDroids



Category: Hiveswap
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Shower Sex, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:28:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25944370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LookingForDroids/pseuds/LookingForDroids
Summary: Marsti gives Folykl the reassurance she needs.
Relationships: Folykl Darane/Marsti Houtek
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Clean Heat

Folykl doesn’t think she’ll ever look forward to taking her ablutions, but she’s getting to the point where she doesn’t hate them. It helps that the water in Marsti’s hive isn’t freezing, and the soaps are easy on her empty eyes; it helps more that Marsti is here with her, working the tangles from her hair with gloved hands.

“You’re completely filthy,” she says, running her fingers through knotted strands, but she says it with heat in her voice, and fondness. Folykl has never in her life heard anyone manage to make something that should be an insult sound so much like a compliment.

“Yeah, well,” she says, leaning back against the soapy plastic of Marsti’s apron. “That’s why you got your fucking hazard gear, isn’t it?”

It’s not. Both of them know it’s not. And it’s not a big deal, or at least it isn’t to her, but Marsti goes quiet behind her, suddenly-tense hands stilling in her hair before letting go entirely. Fuck. It can’t be fun, being reminded that your matesprit is only safe to touch through two layers of clothing. She tries to shift away, but before she can manage, or even be sure she wants to, Marsti gets an arm around her abdomen and pulls her back, leaning over her from behind.

“I don’t need,” she growls, “any _hazard gear_ to deal with you.”

And then she stops, like she’s not sure what she’s doing or whether she ought to be doing it, and there’s an unexpected comfort in that. If Folykl is fucking something up here, at least she’s not the only one.

“So deal with me, then,” she says, wriggling back against Marsti’s hips. “Or do you think I can’t take it?”

That’s enough to shake her out of hesitation, and Folykl yelps as the world upends itself. She isn’t heavy, and as rusts go, Marsti is very strong – strong enough to lift her from her feet without warning, pulling her backwards and down to sit on the rim of the ablution trap. Before she can worry about falling, she finds herself caught, swept up and over Marsti’s spread knees. She has a second to regain her bearings, as Marsti shifts beneath her and does something to adjust her gloves. Hard to say what, exactly; Marsti’s not powerful enough to sense with clarity, and the constant motion of water makes everything hazier. All she has is a sense of stillness, motion, stillness again.

“I know _exactly_ what you can take,” Marsti says, and brings her hand down hard on Folykl’s ass. Her bare hand. She lets it rest there for a moment, curved over stinging skin. It’s a different kind of pain than the pain Folykl is used to, a sharp shock edged with the tingling pleasure of contact. It ripples through her and fades, leaving only the warmth of Marsti’s hand and the ceaseless stream of water over her back and shoulders, dripping down from her hair and over her face. She knows it isn’t really washing her energy away with it, but there’s only so much time you can spend being afraid of something before it really takes root. She shivers despite the heat and steam, and Marsti must feel her shivering, because she tightens her grip, runs her thumb over the frankly negligible curve of Folykl’s ass, then draws her arm back again.

“You’re a mess,” she says, and punctuates it with another smack. “You don’t take care of yourself.”

There’s a tremor beneath the even surface of her voice, and it seems to Folykl that there’s real anger there, but not the kind she expected. It reminds her of the way her lusus would nip at her when she did something dangerous, or when she tried to pull away instead of taking the energy she needed, before she got too sick for it to ever be enough. She ended up driving the old monster off before it killed itself looking out for her, and now her throat aches with the absence of tears. But Marsti’s smarter than that, and too fucking stubborn to chase away. She knows what she’s doing and when to stop, just like she knows how much to hold back when she brings her open palm down again on the back of Folykl’s thighs, how much pain she can deliver before it stops being good. 

There’s a second’s pause, and then Folykl hisses and rocks forward beneath another blow, and a third, rapid and arhythmic, leaving no time to recover. The impact steals her breath, and OK, fuck, she is definitely not thinking about her lusus right now. She’s thinking about Marsti’s claw-tips on her skin, and how that apron feels each time Marsti pushes her down against it, warm with body heat and slick with what she knows must be traces of her own genetic fluid. She’s a mess, alright. She refuses to be ashamed of it.

Marsti’s surely aware of it too – all of it, the mess and filth, the jagged edges of what she needs – but she just squeezes Folykl’s ass again and rubs a hand up and down the back of her leg, skin to skin, a silent reassurance that it isn’t shame she’s looking for. With her other hand, she gets a grip in Folykl’s hair, tugs her head back and says, “Listen to me.”

Two more slaps, then, brief and brisk, with barely any force behind them. A heat that lingers at the end, as Marsti lets go of her hair, leans down close and says, more quietly, “Listen. That doesn’t make you fucking radioactive. And if I’m wearing my personal protective equipment right now, it’s only so I don’t get tired out before I get a chance to do this.”

Her next touch is gentle, parting Folykl’s aching legs to trace the edges of her nook with light, steady pressure. It startles a sound from her, a gasp that shifts to a moan as Marsti slips a finger just barely inside. Then another, pressing deeper and curling in, and there’s a moment when Folykl can’t do anything except let the hot pulse of it roll through her, leaving her loose and languid except for the sudden pressure of her bulge inside its sheath.

“You’re a perv,” she says, as soon as she can figure out how to make words work again, but Marsti just laughs and says, “I thought you were into that.”

“OK,” she says, lifting her hips, pushing back against Marsti’s touch. “I am. You got me there.”

“You‘d better believe I do,” Marsti says, an answer to a question Folykl hadn’t asked but maybe needed to hear anyway. It’s enough to let her relax, at least. She breathes in, breathes out, sinks into the feeling of hot water sluicing over her skin, and then there’s nothing left but the warmth of Marsti’s hand, moving sure and slow inside her, and the knowledge that she’s going to leave here feeling clean.


End file.
